Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  “You broke my nose, you BITCH!”

  “That must hurt,” said Larissa, dropping gracefully to the lawn. She doubted it really did, certainly not in comparison to the injuries the general had sustained both as a soldier and a cartel boss, but she had a sense that the physical pain wasn’t the issue; the fact that a teenage girl had injured him was the problem.

  That does hurt, she thought. I’m sure of it.

  Rejon let go of his squirting nose and glared at her with burning hatred. He growled and came for her again, swinging his fists in two arcing blurs. Larissa danced backward, but he was faster than she expected, faster than almost any vampire she had encountered. One of his fists swooped through the air and crashed against the wet hole where her ear had been, and she screamed, the electric bolt of agony driving her down to one knee. The scream was still rising from her mouth when Rejon’s other fist thundered through the darkening air and connected with her throat, knocking her backward across the lawn. The pain was overwhelming, and a terrible realization flooded through her as she tried to drag air into her lungs.

  I can’t breathe.

  She lay on her back, her chest convulsing, her eyes widening, fighting back the panic that was threatening to explode through her. Garcia Rejon walked toward her, an awful smile on his face, and looked down at her with an expression that seemed close to pity. She opened her mouth, but only a barely audible wheeze emerged. Her head was pounding as her lungs screamed for oxygen, and her hands gripped her damaged throat, trying to massage it back into working order.

  The general stepped over her, then dropped to his knees, straddling her thighs and pinning her to the lawn.

  “Pathetic, am I?” he said. “An animal? I’ll show you what an animal does.”

  He reached for her face, his hands huge and dark in the night air. She watched in slow motion, saw the calluses on his thumbs as they moved toward her eyes. Larissa opened her mouth, hauled in possibly her last breath, and felt something shift in her throat. Air whistled down into her constricted lungs, and she felt strength burst through her as her panic evaporated. Her hand shot out, sliding down her body, and grabbed the general between his legs. There was just enough time for Rejon’s eyes to widen before she squeezed with all her might, feeling something burst beneath her grip.

  The noise that erupted from Garcia Rejon’s mouth was otherworldly, an ear-splitting howl rising from the deepest, darkest corner of his soul. He tried to pull away, but she held her grip tight, and winced as she heard something tear. Rejon’s scream reached a terrible new pitch then cut out, replaced by a low scratching noise as his vocal cords ripped apart. Larissa released her grip as she swung her other hand, crunching her fist into the general’s broken nose, spreading it across his twisted, agonized face and knocking him into the air. He thudded to the ground as Larissa got to her feet, hatred boiling through her mind, and walked toward him.

  Rejon stared at her, and Larissa saw fear in his eyes, bright and shining. He pushed himself back across the grass, his face covered in blood, his body shaking with pain. She moved toward him, not hurrying, letting him experience every second of his terror, his powerlessness—she wanted him to feel it all. Then the general stopped, and his eyes narrowed as a smile began to rise on to his face.

  Larissa threw herself through the air, determined to end him before whatever had caused that smile could be brought to bear. She was barely five feet away, her eyes blazing in the darkness, when the general swung the shotgun up from the grass where she had dropped it and pulled the trigger.

  The noise of the shot was deafening, even in the open air of the garden. Something punched Larissa in the stomach, something vast and made of fire, and pain pounded through her as she landed on Garcia Rejon’s chest and yanked the gun from his hands. She swung it through the warm air on a low, flat arc that ended on the side of the general’s head. The wooden stock of the shotgun shattered, and blood gushed out of the hole it had made. Rejon’s eyes rolled backward in his head, and his limbs began to spasm. Larissa rolled onto the grass, pushed herself away from the stricken vampire with her legs, and dragged herself to her feet, her eyes blazing with righteous fire.

  She racked the shotgun, her mind empty of everything but violence.

  “Look at me!” she screamed. “Look at me, you monster!”

  Garcia Rejon’s eyes rolled, then focused unsteadily on her face. He pushed himself slowly up to his elbows, blood spraying from the side of his head, his mouth working silently. Larissa pulled the shotgun’s trigger. The bullet blew out his shoulder and drove him back onto the grass where he writhed, screaming hoarsely, barely audible. She stepped forward, pumping the shotgun again. The second bullet shattered the general’s left leg, almost severing it, and his eyes bulged until it seemed as though they would fall out of his head. The third bullet destroyed his right knee, and the fourth and fifth obliterated his arms. What was left of the general spasmed and croaked on the sodden grass as Larissa put her foot on his chest.

  Despite the catastrophic damage done to his body, Garcia Rejon managed to fix one of his eyes on hers. As his life ebbed away, he opened his mouth, releasing a torrent of blood, and tried to spit at her, creating little more than a bubble of red on his lips. Larissa raised her foot, then brought it crashing down on his chest. Her boot smashed through the general’s breastplate and mashed his heart against his ribs. He burst, what little blood there was left splashing wetly across the lawn and soaking Larissa’s legs.

  She let out a deep sigh, tipped back her head, and closed her eyes. Her vampire side was sated, and what was left was pain, and sadness. She let them flow through her, embracing them; her biggest fear was that the day might come when violence no longer felt wrong to her.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  It was Tim Albertsson’s familiar voice, and she turned to face him, opening her eyes as she did so. He was standing on the grass beside Flaherty. As she watched, Rushton hauled Rios up through the hole in the lawn.

  “Do me a favor,” said Larissa. “Next time, let’s count the dead before we relax. What do you say?”

  Her squad mates stared at her with wide eyes.

  “Larissa . . . ,” Tim managed. “Your . . .”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your stomach,” he said.

  Larissa frowned and looked down.

  Above her belt was a gunshot wound the size of a dinner plate, a gaping hole from which blood was pumping in dark rivers. The sight of the injury caused the pain to appear, all at once.

  “Oh,” she said, distantly. “That.”

  She felt her eyes roll back as her legs gave way beneath her, and then all was cool, empty darkness.

  22

  ON THE TRAIL OF THE DEAD

  FIELD INVESTIGATION TEAM D9

  REPORT: 6931/H

  SUBMITTED: 0745

  BY: MAJOR ALAN HARDY/NS303, 41-C

  FAO: INTERIM DIRECTOR CALEB HOLMWOOD/NS303, 34-D

  SECURITY: ZERO HOUR CLASSIFIED

  BEGINS.

  As ordered, I assembled a field investigation team comprising myself and operators Andrew Johnson (NS303, 55-R) and Katherine Elliot (NS303, 62-J). Our orders were to locate John Bathurst aka Johnny Supernova and take him into protective custody.

  We left the Loop at approximately 0250 and proceeded to 162B Clerkenwell Road, London, Mr. Bathurst’s last registered address. While in transit, we received updated intelligence informing us that Mr. Bathurst was deceased (see attached coroner’s report), so I requested clarification of our objective.

  I received new orders to investigate whether Albert Harker had attempted to make contact with Mr. Bathurst since his escape from Broadmoor Hospital, operating on the assumption that Harker would have been unaware of Mr. Bathurst’s death. I requested a list of known associates of Mr. Bathurst and proceeded as ordered.

  We arrived at 162
B Clerkenwell Road to find the front door broken. It had been removed from its hinges by a blow of significant force, which initial analysis suggested had been delivered by a human foot wearing a leather shoe.

  In the hallway of the residence we found two letters addressed to Mr. Bathurst’s executor from the law offices of Chesney, Clarke, Abel & Watt and a discarded envelope similarly addressed. The contents of that envelope were missing, presumably removed. We opened the two remaining envelopes and found them to be identical requests for clarification of a particular bequest, signed by a Mr. Thomas Clarke. We requested his home address from the Surveillance Division and proceeded.

  We arrived at 67 Frognal Lane at approximately 0410 and found several rooms within the residence illuminated and the front door unlocked. Upon receiving no response to repeated door knocks, we accessed the residence and found the body of Thomas Clarke in the living room. He had been decapitated, and a large amount of his blood was missing, presumed ingested. I ordered Operator Johnson to document the scene while Operator Elliott and I searched the residence.

  The remainder of the rooms on the first and second floors were empty, with no signs of intrusion. Operator Johnson rejoined us, and we searched for evidence of any subterranean level. We found a door at the rear of the main hallway and proceeded into a cellar, where we found Bonnie Clarke, James Clarke, and Alec Clarke. All three were suffering from shock but were physically unharmed. We instructed them to remain in situ, alerted local police, and finished documenting and surveying the scene.

  As we exited the residence, we received a list of John Bathurst’s known associates. It contained a single name, a journalist named Kevin McKenna. We proceeded to Mr. McKenna’s last known residence at 62A Kilburn Lane, arriving at approximately 0700, and made contact with Mr. McKenna.

  We informed him that a recently released prisoner with a grudge against John Bathurst may attempt to contact him, as per the active cover story, and instructed him to contact the police immediately if such a situation arose.

  Awaiting further instructions.

  ENDS.

  23

  TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

  Jamie made his way into the Intelligence Division and found Kate Randall waiting for him in front of the door that led into ISAT. She smiled as he approached, and he resisted the overwhelming urge to hug her.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked.

  “The timing could be better,” Jamie replied. “But at least it’ll be done with.”

  “It’s just routine, Jamie,” said Kate. “Answer the questions honestly, and we’ll get you out of here as quick as we can.”

  “No problem,” he replied. “Lead the way.”

  Kate nodded and tapped a series of numbers into the panel that controlled the security door. It unlocked with a series of heavy clunks, and he followed her inside. An operator was seated behind a small reception desk. He looked up at Jamie and nodded in recognition. Jamie nodded back, then stepped through a second door and into the interview room. Kate closed the door and motioned him toward the chair at the far end of the room. He settled uneasily into it as his friend spoke quietly into her radio.

  Moments later the door opened again, and two Intelligence Division operators entered. They said nothing as they began to attach a number of sensors to his chest and neck; they seemed unwilling to even look at him.

  “What’s all this?” Jamie asked.

  “Standard lie-detector stuff,” replied Kate. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, and we can get started.”

  “Take your time,” said Jamie. “I’ll just wait here.” He grinned, and she smiled over her shoulder at him as she left the room.

  * * *

  Kate pushed open the door to the ISAT lounge and stepped inside. Paul Turner looked up from his copy of Jamie Carpenter’s file, which was remarkably thick for someone who had been an operator for less than a year.

  “Three minutes,” said Kate. “At least this one should be quick.”

  “We’ll see,” Turner said, and returned his attention to the file.

  * * *

  The technicians pressed the final sensor into place and exited the room, leaving Jamie alone. He tried to find a comfortable position in the chair, pushing himself against the shiny plastic, but quickly abandoned the effort; the furniture in the room had clearly not been selected with relaxation in mind. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he focused on trying to calm it, taking long, deep breaths. His eyes remained fixed on the door, his mind on what Kate might be about to ask him.

  * * *

  Paul Turner closed Jamie’s file, then led Kate out into ISAT’s small atrium, unlocked the interview room door, and held it open. She took a deep breath and walked through it. Jamie smiled at her, although the expression didn’t appear wholly genuine. She smiled back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion and took a seat at the desk. Paul Turner closed and locked the door, before settling into the empty chair beside her.

  Ten minutes, she thought. Yes, it’s weird, yes, it’s awkward. Just be professional and get it done as quickly as possible.

  “Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Paul Turner. “Do you understand the importance of the process that Lieutenant Randall and I are carrying out?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie replied, and gave Kate a brief glance full of pride. “I do.”

  “Excellent. Be honest and this will be over soon.”

  Jamie nodded. Kate waited a moment, cleared her throat, and began.

  “This is ISAT interview 068, conducted by Lieutenant Kate Randall, NS303, 78-J, in the presence of Major Paul Turner, NS303, 36-A. State your name, please.”

  “Jamie Carpenter.”

  Green.

  “Please answer the following question incorrectly,” said Kate. “State your gender, please.”

  Jamie smiled. “Female.”

  Red.

  “Okay,” said Kate. “Let’s get started. Mr. Carpenter, are you currently a lieutenant in Department 19?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “Do you understand that every aspect of your role within Department 19 is classified as top secret or higher?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “Do you understand the necessity for the general public to remain unaware of our existence?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “Have you ever done anything to jeopardize that state of affairs?”

  Jamie fell silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said, eventually.

  Green.

  “Please explain what you were referring to in your previous answer.”

  “I allowed a Department helicopter to make an emergency landing on a residential street in Paris.”

  Green.

  “Why did you make that decision, Lieutenant?”

  “Colonel Frankenstein was injured and in a condition likely to draw attention. I didn’t believe we had time to reach our scheduled extraction point.”

  Green.

  “Did you consider the possible implications of your decision?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “And what did you conclude?”

  “That Colonel Frankenstein’s life was worth the risk.”

  Green.

  Kate smiled inwardly. This was the first incident in Jamie’s file that Intelligence had flagged, even though he had included it in his report at the time. She was relieved to see him deal with it head-on.

  “Lieutenant Carpenter,” she continued. “Have you ever engaged in activities with the intention of damaging or hindering this Department?”

  “No.”

  Green.

  “Have you ever passed information regarding this Department to anyone who was not a member?”

  “Yes.”
/>
  Green.

  “To whom did your previous answer refer?”

  “Matt Browning.”

  Green.

  “Please explain what you are referring to.”

  Jamie cleared his throat. “When Matt came out of his coma, I told him where he was and some of what we do here. He told me he wanted to help, and I told him that he should try to get back here if he was serious.”

  Green.

  Kate felt the tension in her shoulders relax, just a little. The incident involving Matt was the second, and most serious, flag in her friend’s file, and she was glad to hear him volunteer the information.

  “Why did you pass on classified information to a member of the public?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Jamie. Color had risen in his cheeks, which Kate guessed was embarrassment at the memory of what he had done—either that or her friend was angry; if that was the case, she hoped it wasn’t directed at her. “There was just something about Matt that I trusted. I believed he was faking his amnesia, which would mean he was already aware of the existence of vampires, and had seen operators with his own eyes. Mostly, I believed his desire to help was genuine.”

  Green.

  “Were you aware that you were breaking a number of Department regulations by giving Matt Browning classified information?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “Lieutenant Carpenter, have you ever conspired in any way to harm this Department?”

  “No.”

  Green.

  “Have you ever discussed this Department with any supernatural being beyond the execution of orders given to you by your superiors?”

  “No.”

  Green.

  “Would you ever betray the trust of this Department?”

  “No.”

  Green.

  “Are there any incidents in which you believe you could have compromised the security of this Department, whether intentionally or otherwise?”